


trouble's sweet

by milkdaze (flowerstems)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7054321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerstems/pseuds/milkdaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They work the con together: Gaby as their getaway driver when things go sour, Illya as the one who can <i>very literally</i> turn people inside out (Gaby laughed when she heard that, then she saw him fight; she was both in awe and quick to agree with Napoleon), and Napoleon as the one who talks them into trouble almost as quickly as he talks them out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trouble's sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dalliancee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalliancee/gifts).



People are desperate to believe in things. Anything. Gods, miracles, promises. They’re desperate to have something to hold, something that won’t disappear at any given moment. Desire in people is a gaping wound filled with fruit of the harvest. Napoleon shouldn’t dip his hands into it as readily as he does. He shouldn’t take from them as readily as he does because they are beating hearts and sentient beings but he doesn’t really care. Look at him run. Look at them cry.

They work hard to live honestly and he works hard to live dishonestly.

It’s not their fault, not really, but they’ll think it is when he swindles them of everything he can because they trusted him. It’s a guilt that eats at them, he knows it does, and by the time they contact the authorities Napoleon is already working his next target with a new name and that side of forgettable charm.

It works because everyone thinks: it can’t happen to me.

The city is big and open, dark down most streets and too bright on others. Napoleon frequents them all. The streets with the burning barrels, the streets with the gambling, the streets with the black market, the streets with the fights.

He frequents the streets with the fights, especially.

 

* * *

 

The dog tags are your participation slips. If you have one, you’re in. No one ever thinks they’ll be stepping on other’s backs to be able to afford dinner. No one ever thinks they’ll need to beat a man half to death to mean something. No one ever thinks it can happen to them.

It happens to Illya.

Years ago, when he was young and English was strange enough on his tongue to choke him. There was nowhere to turn and no one to rely on, there was just him and cities upon cities for him to wander through.

Then one evening in spring, near a park where children were running to their parents to go home, Illya lost his temper and beat a guy into the pavement. He ran from the police, every witness did, and that night a man gives him a dog tag by streetlight and says there’s a way for Illya to get off the streets.

Illya takes it without a second thought.

Now he’s the best fighter these streets have seen in a long time; the pride that comes with that knowledge is almost as immense as the fear that one fight lost means he loses everything means he means nothing. He can’t be nothing again.

Even as he breaks someone’s jaw.

He can’t mean nothing again.

Even as someone’s head cracks against the asphalt.

He can’t.

He can’t take the staring either. The crowds stare, yes, and there are regulars, admirers even. But the way they stare is different. Passing fancy, adoration, distaste.

This guy just stares as though he’s in a daze. He comes and goes as he pleases and quite frankly he pisses Illya off. He pisses him off especially one night when Illya’s sitting at a bar, quietly nursing a beer (yes, beer, what’s with that look?) and a few bruises, and the guy slides onto the stool to Illya’s right, looking as though he owns the place.

“So you’re Peril.”

Illya really fucking hates that name. “What do you want,” it’s less of a question and more of a _fuck off_ because Illya really hates guys like this one. So what if he doesn’t know him? That smug smile, the way he looks as though the world is his oyster to crack open on a whim for its flesh or a pearl. Illya hates him already.

“I want to offer you a deal.”

Illya turns to him then, takes in his too-neat hair and too-neat face, and frowns. Last time he made a deal he was taken off the streets a lost boy and tossed back onto them a fighter. Bottom line being: in this city when you get a deal you take it.

“What kind of deal?”

The man smiles. “Let’s talk about that.”

 

* * *

 

The man’s name is Napoleon and Illya doesn’t refer to him as such. He refers to him as ‘cowboy’ and ‘capitalist garbage’ but Napoleon is hardly phased by it, which is fine because he only needs Napoleon for one thing.

The same thing Napoleon needs him for.

They’ve set up something of a betting pool across this and neighbouring cities: Illya will challenge other fighters while Napoleon raises the stakes and swindles as many bystanders as he can. They split the profits fifty-fifty despite insisting they never will.

Napoleon does a good job getting people to _believe him_ bet on the wrong person, and Illya does a good job taking hits and giving them. They’ve both earned it in the end.

Illya calls it business, it’s not much different from what he was already doing, but Napoleon calls it a con for two reasons: 1) they challenge fighters who don’t (and sometimes those who do) know Illya’s prowess and 2) “because I know you’ll win.”

Illya doesn’t ask why Napoleon is so confident in his skill, doesn’t care to ask, because he will win either way. That’s just what he has to do.

 

Peril has a name, of course he does, and that name turns out to be Illya so Napoleon’s sources weren’t wrong. Peril is Illya, the same Illya that’s been sweeping the streets red for the past few years, even before Napoleon settled here because the people are lambs to the slaughter. It’s like they want him to rob them silly.

The residents may be lambs but Illya is nothing like them, as expected. He eyes Napoleon with distaste the moment he sits beside him and it’s funny because Napoleon hasn’t done a thing yet.

Imagine his surprise when Illya takes his offer.

Illya reasons it’s because he’ll earn more this way, _my boss dislikes sharing,_ and that’s reason enough for Napoleon—he can’t keep going door to door and swindling people. He’s done it more times than he should have in the northern part of the city and he’s good, he knows he is, but someone will recognise him sooner or later and he would rather it be later.

It’s all business between them but they work well together. Napoleon has no complaints so he lets Illya have his fair share, he’s the one taking the hits anyway.

 

* * *

 

They’re into the third month of this con, the third month of whatever it is they have with each other. During the second month they met a mechanic, Gaby, who fixes cars and fixes identities and can hide in broad daylight. She says she can help them with intricacies and delicacies if they let her in on it. “Rich people have nice cars and nice cars have nice parts so I want in.” She also says she’ll sell them out to the police if they don’t.

They work the con together: Gaby as their getaway driver when things go sour, Illya as the one who can _very literally_ turn people inside out (Gaby laughed when she heard that, then she saw him fight; she was both in awe and quick to agree with Napoleon), and Napoleon as the one who talks them into trouble almost as quickly as he talks them out of it.

They split the profits thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-three; Gaby gets thirty-four percent.

They were working a con at the edge of the city, one that was going smoothly, far too smoothly, and it all made sense when Napoleon and Illya were ambushed five minutes from the meeting point. They were outnumbered, ten to two, and they were this close to being stabbed and sunk to the bottom of the bay when Gaby drove in, running over three men and skidding to a stop in front them. Two-on-two was a much easier fight and they don’t remember a time they’ve jumped into a car as quickly as they did that night.

“This is why we need to have good cars,” she says a quiet half an hour later, car going 140 kilometres, Napoleon fingering a few cuts on his neck, Illya nursing a broken arm. Illya chuckles and it’s a punched-out sound, the result of broken ribs or a punctured lung. Napoleon tries to crack a smile but the bruise spreading from the corner of his mouth hurts too much, his mouth floods with the taste of blood, and he wants to get Illya to the hospital as much as Gaby does (even if he won’t say it). Illya casts a dazed glance at him and Napoleon does smile. He doesn’t know why. Gaby looks at them in the rear-view mirror, eyes shining and Napoleon thinks that'll make night-driving even harder.

Illya passes out. Napoleon struggles to feel his pulse under the bruises. They get to the hospital twenty minutes later.

The doctor makes Illya stay the night, says he has a few broken ribs and he should stay in bed for at least a week. She doesn't let them stay in the hospital room so Gaby and Napoleon stay in the car.

They sit awake and stare at the cityscape, talking about apple pies and get well gifts. Napoleon thinks Illya would hate getting a huge teddy bear so they should get him one. Gaby laughs and drives them to a toy store. It's closed because most stores are closed at 4AM and Gaby falls asleep half an hour later. Napoleon manoeuvres her into the backseat and when the store opens five hours later he buys a giant brown teddy bear with a big red heart then drives them back to the hospital.

It's midday when Gaby wakes up; she grins at the teddy bear but smacks Napoleon’s arm because it's obvious he didn't sleep at all. “God, just look at your eyes,” she cringes, tugs her bottom-eyelids down, and he cringes, too. They take the teddy bear to visit Illya, Gaby gives it to him and he smiles, but they all know if Napoleon tried to give it to him Illya would throw him and the bear out the window.

So instead Napoleon just presses his knuckles against Illya’s temple when Gaby isn't looking and says, “Don't get your ass kicked like that again.”

Illya looks at him, wide-eyed and almost confused, then it's like he suddenly realises something and scoffs, amused. “Then don't make me save you.”

Napoleon almost regrets saying anything and sleeps for a day.

 

* * *

 

These days Gaby always looks at them like they’re comedy gold but when they had first met Napoleon had stolen her wallet and she flew into a rage because _I saw your sticky fingers grab it, give me my goddamn wallet,_ and her mouth shaped the words so primly while her hands grabbed his collar and swung a wrench. Illya stood there laughing at him and when Gaby was about to rearrange Napoleon’s face Illya shoved his hand into Napoleon’s pocket and pried the wallet from his hand (you’re too stubborn, Cowboy, this is why you do not have friends). That’s why Gaby says Illya is her favourite, but truth be told she’d hit them both just as quickly.

Two weeks into the third month of their con, _I can’t believe this is still working,_ they buy an apartment two cities over. Gaby takes one room for herself and laughs, saying, “You two can share the other. Sort out whatever it is between you.” Illya splutters and lets her know exactly what he thinks about Napoleon who just waves it off and lets her have the room.

Illya gives him that familiar look of distaste and Napoleon levels it with a smirk. “A lady deserves her space, I thought you knew that?” Illya gets annoyed in record time and so their rooming arrangements are settled.

The closer Napoleon and Illya get the more hostile they are to each other. Sometimes Napoleon will tap Illya’s shoulder when he’s off to swindle some campers and other times Illya will lean on Napoleon when they’re working out the matches and the times. Sometimes they bicker over what to eat or where to eat it and other times they fight; Illya almost throws Napoleon across the room one evening and Gaby has to rush over, talk him down.

“You really shouldn’t rile him up so much, Napoleon.”

Napoleon just looks at her and works his arm, it feels stretched out and sore from the way Illya had it twisted. He glances at Illya who’s sitting across the room, arms crossed and red-faced like a chastised child. Gaby considers letting Napoleon stay in her room but Napoleon declines. It’s not like Illya would _really_ hurt him.

In the first night they learn Napoleon sleeps as though he’s lounging and Illya sleeps like a vampire and they can’t believe they know how the other sleeps. Neither of them say it, but they feel deeply violated.

“The last thing I need is to be called a vampire by you.”

“Well, the last thing I need is competition. So there.”

The next night they go to sleep facing the walls closest to them but wake up facing each other.

“I can’t believe I had to wake up to your face.”

“Do you think I enjoy seeing you every day?”

Gaby ignores them and pours herself a glass of orange juice. It’s 7AM.

By the end of the week they’re both griping about each other so much even Gaby is feeling snippy. She slams her glass of juice onto the counter so hard they both fall silent, more surprised the glass didn’t shatter than Gaby’s annoyance with their bickering. “What the hell is up with you two?”

They look at each other, glance at Gaby, and decide keeping quiet is the best option.

“If you two don’t work things out or start fighting more quietly, I’ll…” Gaby huffs and takes a long drink of her orange juice, resting the empty glass on the counter and there’s a long crack along the side after all. “Just work it out.” She grabs the last box of cereal and a carton of milk then stomps into her room, slamming the door behind her.

It’s quiet for a long while after that. Napoleon wants to say something but for the first time in a long time he doesn't know what to say.

Illya gets up and leaves the apartment.

 

Gaby and Illya walk into the kitchen at the same time: Illya with groceries, Gaby expecting groceries, and Napoleon eyeing them. He almost laughs because of course they're both back in time for dinner but at the same time he's surprised they're back at all.

Napoleon can feel Gaby staring at him, she's probably staring at Illya as well, and after Napoleon sets out their food and sits with them to eat she asks, “Have you both worked it out?” Her voice is almost flat but curiosity rings through and Napoleon almost feels bad to say no, nothing has changed.

Not that he wants change.

Illya just shrugs, expression indifferent, and Napoleon takes that as code for everything is fine.

“Sure did,” he lies, “we've decided to fight quietly and only when you're out.”

Gaby looks at him, mouth full and eyes wide as though that isn't the answer she wants, but when she swallows she says, “If that floats your boat.”

Illya snorts and says, “It does,” and Gaby smiles at them both. It's almost strained, as though she doesn't believe them but she's too tired to argue, and she nods then changes the subject.

“Do you still have Teddy, Illya?”

Illya chokes and Napoleon laughs because yes, Illya does still have the bear, it's propped up in a corner on his bed.

 

* * *

 

A week later Gaby is away visiting her father and Illya throws Napoleon across the room, right onto the couch. It sounds bad but right after he does it he stands stock still, breathing evening out, and Napoleon just sits up carefully, rolling his shoulders and talking to Illya, trying to calm him.

Illya’s rage isn't a bother, not really, because Napoleon knows Illya won't hurt him. Not really.

Besides, Illya isn't angry with him.

 

When Illya’s calm and can think straight he offers Napoleon a massage. Napoleon eyes him, fights the urge to tease him because Illya already looks mortified, and he sits at their breakfastlunchdinner table and Illya touches his shoulders gingerly before slowly working into a rhythm.

“You should not let me throw you around the room.”

Napoleon just tilts his head to show he's listening and hums absently. “You could throw harder. I've seen you do it.”

“I will not throw you like that.”

“I know.”

Illya falls silent. There are many things Napoleon knows, Illya realises, he just never cared to find out. Even now, he's not all that interested, but if Napoleon is fine like this, should he be? But that's not right, is it?

Then again, conning, stealing, and beating people up for a living isn't exactly right either.

Illya finishes the massage and Napoleon fingers his bruised knuckles before Illya has the chance to pull his hands away. Napoleon expects him to pull away but Illya just lets him feel out his hand, skin rough the way healed and healing skin is.

Later they sit on the couch and watch television for the rest of the day. Napoleon reheats some pasta from the night before while Illya cleans up the room then they watch the same episode of _I Love Lucy_ for the third time that evening.

 

* * *

 

The night before Gaby returns they sit on their beds on either side of the room and look each other, Illya with his legs crossed, back straight, and Napoleon with his legs stretched out, leaning back on the wall. Illya’s giant bear sits in Illya’s corner of the room and Napoleon can't keep a straight face even as Illya glowers at him.

“What are we doing with our lives,” Illya says suddenly. It's not a question, hardly ever is with Illya. Maybe it's because he knows Napoleon won't give him any answers (he can't give what he doesn't have).

Instead of trying to answer, Napoleon asks, “You don't like it?”

The difference between Napoleon and Illya is that Illya is honest in his bones and he tries to answer. “I doubt we can do this much longer.”

“We won't have to,” Napoleon sits up and looks Illya in the eye for the first time in a long time, “we'll figure something else out when we need to.”

Illya scoffs. “You will.”

“That's right,” Napoleon grins, lopsided, and leans back against the wall. It's still warm. “So less thinking and more doing.”

Illya lies down on his side, head near the bear as he stretches to turn off their lamp, and says, “Go to sleep, Cowboy.”

Napoleon snorts, looks at the bones of Illya’s shoulders and how they stick out oddly underneath is skin, as though it's struggling to hold Illya in and together all at once, and he stares at the ceiling instead. “Night, Peril.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby sweeps into the apartment at midday, after Illya dragged Napoleon out with him on his morning jog, _you’re damn lazy for a Cowboy,_ and she steals some of Illya’s cereal, bubbling with excitement.

“Boys, I checked out a few cities on my way back,” oh, that's why she's days late, “and so many of them will be easy to clean out!”

Illya casts a glance at Napoleon and he shrugs, smile in place because Gaby’s excitement is enough to light up the entire block. “Sounds like they want us to visit.”

Gaby nods, taking Illya’s bowl of cereal and Illya just gets up to get another. “What do you boys say? Are we off vacation?”

Napoleon grins and turns to look at Illya fill a new bowl with milk and cereal. “What do you say, Peril? Are we off vacation?”

“Staying here with you any longer will drive me up a wall,” Illya huffs, half-grinning, half-glaring at his half-filled bowl and the empty cereal bag. Gaby snickers and Illya sighs, “When do we leave?”

“We can go right now,” Gaby chimes between spoonfuls of Illya’s cereal. Napoleon frowns at the thought and Illya looks affronted.

“You just got back,” Illya objects, insisting she rest, but Gaby just waves him off.

“If you don't rest then I'll have to drive,” Napoleon adds and that gets them all quiet.

“Tomorrow will be a good day,” Gaby says quickly, walking over to the kitchen and Napoleon laughs.

“Yes, I hear the weather will be pleasant,” Illya adds, stirring his cereal absently.

Napoleon doesn't understand their reaction, Gaby is the one who drives dangerously, but he shrugs it off. He's not in the mood to drive for a con anyway.

“Don't drive Illya up a wall,” Gaby suddenly says to Napoleon before turning to Illya and saying, “and don't let him drive you up a wall, God.”

They nod half-heartedly and after staring them both down for a minute she goes off to her room, falls onto her bed and falls asleep. Napoleon closes the door to her room while Illya washes the dishes.

“I’m stuck here with you for another day,” Illya says, venom less present than it usually is, and Napoleon leans onto the counter and shrugs.

“That’s right.” Napoleon smiles when Illya glances at him, smiles wider when Illya looks away with a scoff. “You’re supposed to be used to me by now.”

It’s been four months and counting. It doesn’t seem that long.

“Cowboy,” Illya sighs, turns off the sink and dries his hands on Napoleon’s sleeves. “I am used to you.”

Napoleon doesn’t know if that’s good or not but the bruises on Illya’s hands have healed, he’s using his arm normally again, and his breathing is easy, steady. That’s as good as it’s going to get for a long while.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what i did with this i'm sorry.


End file.
